Robert B. Parker's Slow Burn (Spenser, #44)(38)

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Susan ordered a mimosa for her and a Bloody Mary for me. I asked for extra celery and olives to keep it as healthy as possible. As we drank and enjoyed the sun and splashing sounds of the pool, I told her more about the case. I started with Captain Collins and wound my way around to John Grady’s confession and on to my recent talk with the arson investigators.

“Cops think whoever is lighting these fires killed Featherstone, the Spark.”

“And what do you think?”

“Not sure,” I said. “But his wife is sure of it. She says it’s the only important thing he’s ever done in his life.”

“Uncover an arsonist?”

“Get killed by one.”

“I once treated a teenager who was obsessed with fire,” she said. “He was a true pyromaniac. Through cognitive therapy, I believe I was able to help him.”

“What does setting a fire do for a person, doc?”

“This boy had a very high IQ,” she said. “But often fire starters aren’t very bright. Fire fascinates them. Some are even mentally challenged. Others find an interest in fire during puberty. They find something almost sexual about it.”

“Fire and sex seems like a bad match,” I said. “The reason I never cook naked.”

“Almost never,” Susan said.

“Does everything always go back to sex?”

“If you’re a shrink?” she said. “You bet it does. I’ve read in medical journals that the adult who gets consumed by setting fires is driven, much like a sex addict.”

“What about us?” I said. “Are we sex addicts?”

“Addiction is only a problem when it causes harm to yourself and those you love.”

“Sometimes I believe we traumatize Pearl,” I said. “The way she wails and claws at the door. Where will it all lead?”

“Pearl is a mature girl.”

“True.”

“Does Jack McGee believe the church fire was set to harm firefighters?”

“Yes.”

“And have there been other church fires?”

“Two,” I said. “But one was proven electrical. Most have been warehouses.”

“Were they both Catholic churches?”

“The electrical was at a Presbyterian church.”

“I guess you have to separate the arsonist who sets fire for so-called legitimate reasons,” she said. “Revenge, extortion. Sometimes a teenager is just seeking thrills. I would venture to guess a true pyromaniac is a small fraction of those who engage in this type behavior.”

“There is some nut sending notes to arson investigators calling himself Mr. Firebug,” I said. “They’ve got dozens of notes. They always send them to the ATF lab, but whoever sent the note, whether authentic or not, seems to know what they’re doing. No fingerprints. Very common household printer.”

“Mr. Firebug?”

“Catchy.”

“If he’s real, he likes power.”

“Of course.”

“And notoriety.”

“Sure.”

“Is he good at his job?”

“Setting fires?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Cahill certainly thinks so,” I said.

Susan drank some of her mimosa. I shook the ice in the Bloody Mary to squeeze out a few last sips. I popped an olive into my mouth and crossed my legs at the ankles. The golfers had moved on and we were left with the sound of the wind. A few gulls glided over the golf course.

“Has Jack considered the firebug may be one of his own?”

“I have,” I said. “But to Jack, that would be akin to blasphemy.”

“What happened to your Bloody Mary?” she said.

“I needed to replenish my vitamins and minerals,” I said. “You’re not easy, kid. I plan on getting a dozen oysters for lunch.”

Susan lay back, stretched her legs, and gave a soft sigh. She did not speak for a long while as the sun warmed our bodies. I drank another Bloody Mary. A short time later, Susan strolled back to our room, crooking a finger in my direction.





32


I awoke to a ringing phone and a perky woman at the front desk telling me I had a visitor. Before I could ask who, she hung up. Susan was already in the shower getting ready for dinner.

I slipped on a pair of khakis and a navy blue T-shirt, sliding on a .38 in a holster behind my hip. The T-shirt was long and loose and draped over the outline of the gun. I sauntered down the hallway and into the wide lobby. The lobby was bright and utilitarian, with blue chairs and sofas and a busy carpet that might have impressed Jackson Pollock.

I spotted two women in tennis outfits chatting and the man I’d seen earlier from the putting green. He was busy with two young boys who raced around the lobby. No one was at the front desk, so I ducked into the bar to take a peek.

Hawk leaned against the bar like Alan Ladd in Shane. Instead of buckskin, he had on a blue floral jacket, white jeans, and blue oxford shoes. The floral pattern had been woven in navy upon white material. Underneath, he wore a crisp white linen shirt.

“Does Miss Scarlett know you made a mess out of her drapes?”

“Ha,” Hawk said. “This here is a Billy Reid. What you call couture.”